


quiet nights (poured over ice)

by thedarknesswithin (babylxxrry)



Series: only fools fall [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, alina and deniss are friends and confidants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 14:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17427518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babylxxrry/pseuds/thedarknesswithin
Summary: because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means your life is over anyway. —sikendeniss is tragically, desperately in love with stephane.





	quiet nights (poured over ice)

**Author's Note:**

> lemme put a disclaimer that this is entirely fiction. i don’t know what’s going on at champery. 
> 
> this was prompted by a discussion about how it seems quite likely that steph and chris are together, if not married (rings happened at some point idk the details and i don’t want to know them). i’m very sorry. the convo threw me completely for a loop and i’m having a bit of a crisis of faith so forgive me. don’t read this if you’re looking for happy stuff. 
> 
> also, this brings in alina as deniss’ close friend and confidant. i chose her for numerous reasons, but primarily because it seems so unlikely but so logical. feel free to talk to me about my reasoning if you’re interested, but do know that i do not ship them. they will remain merely as friends in this and any future fic i write.

Deniss sighs as they pull into the driveway. Home is a bittersweet place. He can practically feel Stephane light up beside him.

“We’re home! Can you-“

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it.” Deniss knows what Stephane is going to say before he says it. After all, it’s the same every time they come home.

“Thank you, Deni,” Stephane leans over the console to drop a quick kiss on Deniss’ cheek before he practically dashes into the house.

Deniss watches him go, the lingering feeling of the kiss biting his cheek. It always does.

He pulls himself out of the car and goes around to the back to retrieve their luggage. Locks the car. Drags the luggage into the house. Kicks the door shut behind him. Toes off his shoes by the rest of them, absentmindedly pushing Stephane’s into line.

Deniss steps softly through the house, leaving his own bags in his room before he drops off Stephane’s by the side of his closed door. He can hear sporadic murmuring from inside, and turns away, pulling his hood up. Later, he’ll make dinner and smile and sit through a movie, but now, he’s free to do as he pleases. He fishes his headphones out of his bag and pulls them on, grabbing a clean sheet of paper and flicking the desk lamp on.

What he draws isn’t beautiful by his usual standards. It’s not the ordered, clean lines that he frequently puts down. It’s not the detailed portraits he’ll do sometimes, or the simple architecture sketches that make their way onto his walls. What he draws now, what he draws every time he comes home, is Stephane. And therein lies the definition of beauty by usual standards. When Deniss draws Stephane, when he really draws Stephane, more than the quick doodles he has in his journal margins or the birthday gifts or the middle-of-the-night inspiration, he draws beautiful parts. He draws the way Stephane’s eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way his hands flex when he mimics a piece of choreography, the way he carries himself both on and off the ice. The subject is beautiful, but the emotions that fuel the drawings are not.

The pencil guides his hand, light, scratchy strokes marking out the angle of a finger, the soft curve of a lip. He lets go of his mind and lets his hand carry him.

Deniss never keeps his drawings of Stephane. Not the ones he’s proud of, anyways. It’s too dangerous to have them here, reams and reams of paper covered with bits and pieces of his heart, poured out in a desperate attempt to lessen the ache in his chest every time they come home. Because, yes, they’re coming back to Switzerland, back to Champery, back to the place Deniss wishes he could live forever, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. And it’s laid out for all to see on these sheets, hundreds of angles and lines and shadows coming together to declare one thing.

_I am horribly, desperately in love with Stephane Lambiel._

Now, that just won’t do, will it? It will not do for the world to know that he is in love with his coach, fourteen years older than him, a man, married. It will not do for his manager, the husband of his coach, to find out that he is so deeply, irrevocably in love.

And so every time Deniss comes home, he fights the tears, draws until his hand cramps and his eyes burn.

Night falls eventually, but Deniss doesn’t really notice it. Night always comes, but so does the morning. What’s the point in investing energy in something that will always happen?

 _You invest energy in indulging your hopeless little crush_ , his mind supplies helpfully, and he rolls his eyes. It always says that. This is a well-travelled road, a route as familiar as the one from here to the rink. He knows how it goes.

He sits back, takes a long look at what he’s produced. Some sketches, some more detailed pieces, chock-full of all the things he’ll never be able to tell Stephane, will never be able to tell anyone at all, besides the solitary person who keeps his secret for him and with him. He pulls out a sheet of plain lined paper.

_Hi Alina. I hope you’re well, and that your knee and ankle heal quickly. Send Masaru my love and kisses. I’m sorry I’m sending another set that you have to hide. Thank you for always listening and being kind. I’ll see you at Euros. -D_

Deniss keeps a stash of stamps in his room for this purpose. It’s expensive to mail so often to Russia, but Alina is the only one he trusts with his drawings, so he sets aside enough money to buy postage and big envelopes. It’s hard to find time to run by the post office in town, but he’ll usually take the next grocery trip with Chris and make some excuse to disappear long enough to drop off the envelope.

He laughs at the irony as he slips this newest batch into plastic slip covers, then into the envelope. If only Chris knew. If only.

Deniss stands and stretches, leaving the envelope on his bed. He’ll ask about the next trip into town at dinner. Chris and Stephane’s door is still closed, but there’s no more murmuring. Deniss doesn’t want to know what’s happening on the other side.

He throws together something resembling dinner, setting everything out on the dining table before he knocks on the closed door. There’s a minute of silence and Deniss knocks again.

“Dinner’s ready,” Deniss says to the door, loud enough that it should carry through.

Stephane’s voice, rough with sleep and probably other things, comes back after a moment. “We’ll be there soon, feel free to start!”

Deniss sighs, his feet carrying him back to the table. He takes a look at everything, hot and delicious, and knows that by the time Chris and Stephane show up, it’ll be cold. He puts it all back in the kitchen and halfheartedly spoons some onto a plate for himself.

He eats alone, standing at the kitchen counter. He’s not sure if he eats fast tonight or Chris and Stephane are particularly slow this time, but they still haven’t shown up by the time he finishes. He leaves his things in the sink. He’ll take care of them later, once everyone’s finished eating.

With one last look at the food cooling on the counter, Deniss retreats to his room. He was hoping for more tonight, maybe a nice conversation over his food, or even a movie tucked into Stephane’s side, but sometimes it just doesn’t turn out that way. He busies himself unpacking and sorting out what needs to be washed and what can be put back in his drawers. He doesn’t hear their door and footsteps out to the kitchen for another forty-five minutes, putting a full hour between when he knocked and when they’re finally eating. He wishes they’d at least told him how long they’d be, or something, so he could’ve timed everything better, but he supposes he should’ve known.

There’s a knock on the door some thirty minutes later, and he opens it to Chris smiling at him.

“Dinner was great. Thank you. Steph and I were going to watch something, did you want to join?”

Deniss hesitates. On any other day, he would’ve said yes without thought. Anything to spend more time with Stephane. But today, he thinks maybe the two of them would like their time alone. After all, he’s just spent an entire competition weekend with Stephane. He deserves some quality time with his husband.

“No, I’m not feeling too well. You guys have fun, though,” Deniss says quietly. It’s not really a lie, he can feel a headache coming on and his whole body aches. He tells himself it’s from the flight and the car ride, but he knows _that’s_ a lie.

“Okay, sleep early tonight. I’ll get you some medicine in the morning if it still looks like you’re coming down with something.”

Deniss nods absently. It’s things like this that almost hurt more than if Chris was an asshole. It’s not like he can hate Chris, because Chris is nice to him and helps Stephane take care of him, and of course, he makes Stephane happy. There’s nothing else Deniss could ask of him.

He listens to Chris tell Stephane something, and there’s a quiet shuffling of chairs. Stephane appears in the doorway a few moments later.

 “Are you okay, Deni? You didn’t seem sick on the way back.”

Deniss shrugs, closes his eyes when Stephane lays a gentle hand on his forehead.

“I just have a headache. Nothing serious.”

“No fever, either,” Stephane says, nodding. “Just sleep, okay? You need to rest.” His eyes are soft and kind and Deniss finds himself lost in them.

“I will. Enjoy your movie.” Deniss pulls on a smile. Stephane doesn’t look convinced, but he cups Deniss’ face in his hands and kisses him on the forehead.

“Goodnight, mon cheri. Sleep well. I’ll get you in the morning.”

Deniss smiles for real, small, but real. Stephane’s lips burn his skin.

He watches Stephane walk back out to Chris, knowing that he’ll be greeted with kisses and cuddles and laughter. He turns away. Closes the door. He supposes it couldn’t hurt to reorganize his room.

Lying in bed that night, Deniss tries to ignore the very faint thumping of a headboard against a wall coming vaguely from the direction of the master bedroom. He knows Stephane will be walking with the slightest little limp tomorrow, because it happens every time.

The thumping speeds up before it stops and there’s a muffled groan that gets cut off like someone put a hand over a mouth, and Deniss screws his eyes shut, turning his music higher. It helps, some, but now it’s too loud for him to fall asleep, and he doesn’t want to turn it down in case they go for a second round.

He watches the minutes tick by. It’s 23:30, then 23:59, then midnight. He calculates how much sleep he’ll get if it takes him seven minutes to fall asleep and accounting for Stephane being tired from the travel and the sex and the time zones.

Then it’s 1:00 and Deniss isn’t anywhere near sleep. The house is settling. He can hear its familiar creaks and sighs as the chill outside forces its way in. He’s glad for the electric heater that keeps his room toasty at night. Swiss winters are cold.

2:00. Deniss is about to cry from frustration because god, he’s spent the last hour reliving the competition they just came off of. It’s not his programs or anything he actually did on the ice that’s keeping him up. He’s learned how to put those past him and keep going. No, he’s been dwelling on each little moment he shared with Stephane, which is essentially the entire competition, as well as the gala and all the travel time. He can’t keep doing this. He won’t be able to sleep at all tonight if he keeps thinking.

He gets up and blindly pulls on a sweater, grabbing his skate duffle from its spot by the door. His heavy outer coat awaits him by the door.

The walk to the Palladium is freezing. He fumbles with the keys before he manages to unlock one of the side doors. The hallways are dark, but he makes his way easily to the rink. Here, the moon weakly illuminates the space, brighter patches falling on the ice. Deniss leaves the lights off.

He pulls his skates on, leaving his coat and boots in a sloppy pile on the floor. Stephane would kill him for it.

He’s not stupid enough to jump anything bigger than singles without anyone around, so he throws himself into improvising choreography to the silence of the rink and the roaring in his heart. The sound of his blades on the ice is soothing and he lets go and just skates. He starts crying at some point, he registers, sobbing on his knees in the middle of the rink, barely strong enough to stay upright. Tears aren’t usual, but they’ve happened before, and Deniss curses himself for being so weak, pushing himself back to standing. He shouldn’t be crying over Stephane, but maybe it’s more than just Stephane. It’s more like all of the things he so desperately _craves_ , all of the things Stephane can’t give him because that’s not how the cards have fallen. It’s more like wishing he meant more to Stephane when they weren’t travelling for competition. It’s more like wondering if Stephane notices the little things he does around the house to make it _home_ for him and Chris, if not Deniss himself. It’s more like wondering how much Stephane would really care if he switched coaches, because then he could have hundreds of hours more with Chris, hours that Deniss occupies right now just by _existing._

Deniss just wants Stephane to be happy, wherever he falls in that equation. All he wants is for Stephane to be happy. That’s all he needs.

It’s 4:45 when he finally feels tired enough that he might be able to fall asleep. The trudge back to the house is downright miserable. He’s cold and his legs are tired and everything still aches. He ignores the tear tracks freezing on his cheeks.

He lets himself back into the warmth of the house and changes into something clean when he gets to his room. The house is quiet, humming quietly along like it’s always done.  The envelope sits on his desk, _Alina Zagitova (c.o. Sambo-70)_ staring up at him. He’ll mail it soon. More tears threaten to fall when he remembers all of the things he’s sent, everything Alina is keeping safe for him until he asks for them back. He thinks maybe she’s taking care of part of his soul, and he whispers a _thank you_ to the air for her gentleness with the most fragile pieces of himself.

Deniss doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but his sleep is deep and dreamless.

It always is.

 

-fin.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading !! leave a comment or kudos as a hug for deniss or if you enjoyed (or cried)


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